Hell's Warrior

by Jaye Roycraft

  “Thor, anything yet?” he whispered into his mic.

  “Nope.”

  “Nate?”

  “Negative.”

  He waited, calling on the patience bred of nights piled upon endless nights. He’d tied his hair behind his head, but the breeze loosened strands on the side of his face that lifted and whipped across his eyes. He pulled the collar of his knee-length jacket up and huddled in its leather folds. Beneath the jacket, he wore black jeans and a black T-shirt with the words “Blood Spunk” in red. He’d found the shirt earlier in the evening when he’d combed the bowels of the club. “Blood Spunk” was the name of a band Phryne and other vampire clubs favored, but when Cade had pulled the shirt on, he hadn’t cared about that. It was part disguise and part psychological weapon, for he didn’t think the words would make a pasty-faced mortal councilman comfortable. He forced himself to crouch at the corner of the flat rooftop, a mere decorative gargoyle, he hoped, to anyone who peered upward beyond the glow of the street lamps.

  He took a deep breath. If he were to be completely honest with himself, it wasn’t the councilmen at all he needed to worry about. Somewhere out there was the Asian, and Cade knew in his gut that his business with him was not yet finished. Why hadn’t the Asian sent him to the true death when he had the chance? There was a reason his enemies still wanted him alive, but what reason? To prosecute him in court for Deborah’s death? To publicly humiliate him?

  Traffic rolled down Lawrence, and pedestrians trolled the sidewalk below him. Scraps of laughter and conversation wafted up to him.

  “God, that was soooo good!” one female exclaimed, breaking Cade’s reverie and prompting a small smile. The woman’s partner was a vampire, so Cade guessed that it wasn’t dinner or a show that the woman gushed about, but a quickie in the cemetery. He dropped his smile. It was too much a reminder of his own hunger.

  A black sedan pulled up in front of Vamphasia and parked.

  “A car just parked in front of the club. Stand by,” whispered Cade. He didn’t think it was the cops. The police were too smart to park directly in front of a target location. But it could be the Asian again. After a moment, a man exited the driver’s seat. He was a mortal by his appearance and scent, and when the man twisted around, Cade recognized him. Kurt Koslik. Koslik looked nervous, for he yanked on his tie like it was a serpent that was trying to strangle him. His pale face gleamed with moisture under the glare of the street lamps as he did a one-eighty in a clumsy attempt to scour the area for bogeymen. Seemingly satisfied, the man pulled on his tie once more and headed for Vamphasia’s front entrance.

  “It’s Koslik. It looks like he’s alone. I’ll wait until he’s inside, then make my way into the club via the restaurant.”

  “Copy that.”

  Koslik hesitated at the door, looking around one more time, then pulled the door open and disappeared inside. Cade ran to the rear of the rooftop, dropped to the ground, and emerged onto the sidewalk bordering the south side of Lawrence Avenue. He quickly joined a mortal couple that waited at the crosswalk at Magnolia for the light to change. They paid him no mind, and when they crossed the street, he followed them. He played the law-abiding-citizen role with ease, for it was a role he’d played for years, and if enemy eyes were watching the street, he hoped he’d be seen as just another harmless young club-hopper.

  He entered the restaurant adjacent to Vamphasia and slowly made his way toward the rear hallway that led to the rest rooms and the staircase that descended to the basement. He ran down the stairs, and in less than a minute negotiated his way through the connecting passageway into Vamphasia.

  “I’m in,” he breathed to his listening audience outside. It was the signal to Nate to start the recording equipment via remote.

  “Copy that,” answered Nate.

  Cade took off his jacket and draped it over one leg of an upended chair on a table. It was gloomy inside the club. Only a few wall sconces were lit, and they created more shadows than light, but that was fine by Cade. Though Koslik was a mortal, it was possible he carried a gun chock-full of Claws, and while Nate had offered Cade a bulletproof vest and Claws of his own, Cade had declined. He’d win this thing on his own terms, not those of mortal man. Darkness was his ally, so he left the lights turned low.

  “Hello? Kincade? I’m here, as you asked. Show yourself. Show yourself, or I’m gone.”

  “I’m here, Councilman,” he answered, stepping to the edge of the dance floor.

  “Turn up the lights. I can’t see you.”

  “But I can see you.”

  And he could smell him. Koslik’s fear and the pungent odor of his sweat permeated the room.

  “What do you want? Money?”

  Cade glided forward, keeping his gaze on Koslik’s hands. They were clenching and unclenching at the man’s sides. Good. Maybe Koslik didn’t have dreams of becoming a hero after all. Cade moved closer yet, until he could hold the man’s gaze with his own. Koslik’s eyes seemed to catch all the light in the room, meager as it was, for his eyes glowed like those of a deer caught in a headlight’s beam.

  You will lose any idea of using force against me, and you will tell me the truth. “No, not money. I want two things. The first is the truth about Deborah Dayton.”

  Koslik’s mouth worked silently, as though his collar was too tight for words to escape his lips. “She was an embarrassment!” The words finally gushed from Koslik as if he were only too happy to comply with Cade’s compelling command. “She embarrassed all of us—city government, the citizens, Chicago’s very name. Her pro-vampire initiatives were an affront to decency!” A vein at Koslik’s temple throbbed, reminding Cade of the second thing he wanted from Koslik.

  “But why kill her? Why not simply wait for her term to end?”

  Koslik shook his head, dislodging strands of carefully greased hair. “No. We couldn’t take the chance of another surprise election ending in another undesirable result.”

  “And why me?” Cade called out, though he knew the answer.

  Koslik laughed, and the sound echoed in the cavern of the dance hall. “Isn’t it obvious? You were behind Dayton’s election. Everyone knows it. You forgot your place, Kincade, so you, too, had to go. What better way to kill two birds than to eliminate Dayton and frame you for the murder?”

  So Cade had been dead-on with his assumptions. But something still didn’t feel right. Koslik was too weak to orchestrate such an elaborate plan. His will had crumpled before Cade’s power like that of a sacrificial lamb, not a lion.

  “But you failed, didn’t you, Koslik?”

  “No!” Koslik’s pale face reddened. “I didn’t fail at all. It was Doyle! He said he had all the cops in his pocket. Doyle assured us the cops would have you in no time, but they failed. Doyle blamed it on the vampires on the force. He said the vampires compromised the efforts of the whole department.”

  Interesting. Maybe Ivan Ratkovich and Hannibal Tower had helped him in their own way after all.

  “That’s when you turned to the professionals.”

  “Of course. Fight fire with fire. But he was ineffectual, too.” Koslik paused, as if he’d finally run out of people to blame. “What’s the second thing you want?”

  “Your blood, Councilman.”

  “Cade! We got company!” Nate’s voice screamed in his ear, and seconds later the sound of automatic gunfire peppered the night.

  Cade swore. It wasn’t that he doubted the gunfire was Nate’s, but Cade hadn’t finished with Koslik. “Us,” Koslik had said. “Doyle assured us the cops would have you in no time.” Cade needed to know who else was in on the conspiracy, and he had to keep Koslik alive until he could provide the answer.

  “Come on.” Cade grabbed Koslik’s arm and dragged the man up the stairs to the second floor.

  Koslik stank even more than before, for piss a
s well as sweat now stained his fine Michigan Avenue suit. “No, please,” he whined.

  “Shut up,” ordered Cade. He opened the door to the initiation room, pulled Koslik inside, and manacled him to the dais. He grabbed the councilman’s chin and jerked the man’s head so that his gaze couldn’t escape Cade’s eyes. “You’ve been stealing for years, Koslik. Don’t think I don’t know you’ve been diverting the federal money earmarked for the undead. Now you’re going to learn what it’s like to have someone take from you.”

  Koslik’s eyes bugged, and he tried to shake his head. Whether it was an attempt at a denial or merely a plea for mercy, Cade didn’t know or care. He tightened his grip on the man’s sweaty jaw.

  “Nothing would satisfy me more than to take your life, Councilman. But taking your blood and leaving you alive with the memory serves me better and pleases me no less.” Cade tore Koslik’s shirt open at the neck, turned the man’s head, and sank his fangs into the meaty neck. This was no sexual ritual, nor was it mere sustenance, but the vanquishing of a foe and the ultimate manifestation of dominance over another creature. All were sweet, and this as much so, in spite of Koslik’s stench and blubbering.

  Koslik strained against the manacles at first, mouthing vague entreaties that were as incoherent as baby talk. Cade ignored the feeble attempts at resistance, knowing that in a minute Koslik would succumb, as all prey did, to the inevitable. Koslik’s surrender came soon, and his body stilled as Cade drew on him, slowly and steadily. The moment of surrender was the sweetest of all—the moment sucklings couldn’t control—but Cade savored the moment, then let it go, releasing his victim. Koslik’s eyes were glassy. Death would not dull them this night.

  “Enjoy the smell of blood, Councilman. Enjoy the memory of what just happened. When you’re in prison you’ll have lots of time for memories.”

  Koslik’s mouth moved, but he said nothing.

  Without a look back, Cade moved to the top of the stairs and spoke into the mic. “Nate? Thor? Somebody talk to me.”

  But only gunfire and screams from the main floor below answered him. A moment later, a familiar scent filled his nostrils. Vampire. And it wasn’t Thor. He descended the stairs, knowing unfinished business awaited.

  “Well, well, well. If it isn’t Che Kincade, who keeps showing up like a bad Indian penny. But I’m glad, really, that I didn’t kill you last night. It gives me the pleasure of doing it now.”

  The Asian stood before him as he had when they’d first met in the alley. His pale eyes gleamed, but not half so bright as the sword and halberd that danced slowly in the air, tracing arcs of silver in the gloom. Like Cade, he wore no coat, merely loose fitting brown trousers, a sleeveless tunic of beige silk, and a leather harness that crisscrossed his torso.

  “Ran Jian yi. Councilman Koslik was just detailing your failures to me. Let’s see . . . 0 for 2 now, isn’t it?”

  The blades ceased their twirling, and the Asian held them still at his sides. “Koslik?” The Asian’s stoic face showed no twitch of emotion, but Cade hadn’t missed the surprise in his voice. “You’re wrong, Kincade. I don’t fail.”

  Cade slid Gravedigger from the sheath that rested against his back, and in the few seconds of calm before the storm tried to process the information coming his way. Light bulbs in his mind didn’t just turn on, they exploded. I’ve been all wrong. The Asian didn’t know Koslik. Someone else had hired him. I don’t fail, the Asian had said. If the Asian spoke the truth, then his orders hadn’t been to kill Cade, but simply to do a damn fine job of appearing to want to kill him. If Koslik and his councilmen buddies hadn’t hired the Hairball, who had? Somebody who wants me around. Somebody who wants me to solve Deborah’s murder. And he’d done it. Koslik’s confession had been caught by several hidden cameras. Nate’s cameras. Nate? Had Nate been playing him for a fool all along? But why?

  Hatred. Just like Hell. Plain old simple hatred.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  THIS TIME IT WAS for real. The Asian’s words rang in his head. It gives me the pleasure of doing it now. This would be a true fight to the death. Cade was prepared, for he’d expected the Asian to return. He eased toward the bar, where he and Thor had hidden a sword earlier in the evening. The sword had been part of a stash of weaponry they’d found upstairs in the initiation room, secreted in a hidden panel. It was more of a ceremonial sword, but who cared? The blade was long and sharp, and that’s all Cade cared about. Cade held Gravedigger in his left hand and ran the fingers of his right hand under the lip of the bar. His eyes, though, were on the Hairball, who was striding toward him like an Olympic javelin hurler, halberd held high.

  The sword wasn’t there. Thor? But why? There was no time to wonder, for the Hairball was on him. Cade parried the halberd with Gravedigger and simultaneously twisted his body to miss the slash of the Ch’ing sword. He was not going to be run through this time, and he wasn’t going to sacrifice his body to get a single shot at the Asian’s heart.

  But he still needed to reach the Hairball’s heart. He still needed to pass through the radius of death of his enemy’s longer weapons. But how? He parried again and again, constantly pivoting, constantly moving, one step ahead of the deadly steel. But it was defensive posturing. How to go on the offensive?

  Another light bulb exploded. No. I’ve been thinking all wrong. I’ve been aiming for the wrong target. But he did need a second weapon, and he knew where to find it. He and Thor had planted weapons in the dance hall earlier. The sword was gone. He assumed the other weapons were gone as well. But even then he’d resolved to watch his own back. After Thor had left, Cade had gone back in and moved a knife to a new hiding place. It was a Maker’s knife, double-bladed and honed to razor sharpness, made specifically for cutting flesh.

  He moved swiftly now back to the tables, grabbing upended chairs with his free hand and flinging them at the Asian. The Asian deflected them easily, still advancing, but more slowly now. Do you wonder what game I’m playing, Hairball? Am I amusing you? Cade reached the end table, swept off the chairs, and there in the middle of the table sat the initiation knife, right where he’d left it. The ruby encrusted handle winked at him, and he allowed himself a small smile.

  The Asian laughed. “Is that the best you can come up with? That’s not a fighting weapon. That’s for making pretty little cuts on pretty boys and girls.”

  Cade didn’t respond, not wanting to expend energy on banter. Change your thinking. Aim for a new target. He danced to the side, slicing the air with the new knife to get a feel for its weight and balance. He danced, waiting for inspiration. Nothing came.

  He changed directions and moved sideways again.

  Cut off the head of the snake.

  The old adage came to him out of nowhere, but it was a good idea. He couldn’t behead the Hairball, not yet, but he could disarm him. Cade moved forward, zeroing in on the halberd first. In their last fight, it had been the halberd that had made it possible for the Asian to heart-pierce him. Cade fought on instinct now, matching his foe stroke for stroke. Cade’s arms and torso took a multitude of minor blows, and the familiar pain arose like smoke from destruction.

  Suddenly Cade backpedaled again, then stopped, waiting.

  The Asain paused, then leapt at Cade, halberd held high.

  Cade’s senses slowed everything down, and his eyes saw a stationary target. A slender brown hand gripped the metal shaft of the halberd. A brown leather bracer encased a muscular forearm. But at the base of the Asian’s wrist, bare skin marked the bullseye.

  Cade raised the Maker’s knife, aimed it at the target, and wielded it with all his strength. The halberd clanked against the marble floor and slid under the tables. The Asian cried out, and a single high keen resonated against the walls and bounced back as the battle cry of an entire army. The Asian’s left hand hung by a tendon. He folded his injured arm against his chest to protect it and ke
pt fighting.

  The Ch’ing flashed, and Cade saw only light, not metal, but the Asian’s timing and balance were just a little off. Cade backed off again. The Asian didn’t take the bait a second time, though, and simply waited for Cade to come back to him. Cade did, and the Asian poised the Ch’ing for a killing blow. Cade saw the grinning bat-guard with its coiled wing-tips, and again he had his target. The blade fell toward him, Cade feinted, and he aimed just inches beyond the bat and swung the Maker’s knife as hard as he could. Again it sliced through flesh and bone like a scythe through wheat, and the Ch’ing rang against the floor with the Asian’s hand still clutched around the handle.

  The Asian screamed again, and blood squirted from both stumps. Cade wasted no time. With a howl, he leapt at the Asian, knocking him backward to the floor. Cade straddled him and plunged Gravedigger through his enemy’s heart. The Asian shrieked and pummeled him with his bloody stumps, but all he accomplished was to further ruin Cade’s borrowed T-shirt.

  “Who hired you, asshole?” Like a fork holding a piece of meat, Cade gripped Gravedigger’s rosewood handle with his left hand. With his right, he proceeded to carve through the Asian’s chest.

  “Never,” breathed the Asian through clenched fangs.

  Cade had sliced halfway around the heart. “Oh, but I intend to do more than make pretty little cuts on your flesh. I’m going to cut out your heart. Is protecting some other punk worth surrendering your immortality?”

  The Asian’s mouth worked silently, as if the question required thought. Cade decided to make it a no-brainer, and he completed his circular cut. “Who hired you?”